All I want for Christmas is my three front teeth

They come in piecemeal.  If their name isn't on the list, they're told to come back later.  Mostly Irish, the occasional Brit and the odd woman.  The first thing we ask is if they'd like some tea.  Milk and sugar?  Almost always.  The blind man  in the corner asks for coffee.

It was my first night at Dublin Simon's 'social club' - a night where DS 'service users' (the homeless) come and eat with the volunteers.  

I don't know my way around and feel in the way of other volunteers.  So I sit down and start talking.  This man is from Lithuania.  His English isn't good and my hearing is bad.  I feel I am doing more harm, making him stammer out broken sentences.  He uses his hands to speak louder.  He is missing his ring finger.  Someone tells him they ordered a garlic pizza just for him and he smiles wide.  He's missing four front teeth, not all in a row.  He excuses himself and I move on.

A famous Irish comedian makes a surprise visit.  His name is David McSavage and at first, I mistake him for another service user.  Half his jokes are about Americans and how superficially positive we are.  I think his jokes are funny, if brash, but a service user interrupts his show to tell him there's an American in the audience.  He makes me identify myself and apologizes. My cheeks redden and I tell him it's alright.  I leave the room to talk to the blind man in the corner.

Let's call him John.  He wears a long, black coat and wired spectacles.  He seems regal, despite the stains on his jacket.  He notices my accent and asks me where I'm from.  Chicago.  He gives me an encylopedic history of the state of Illinois.  Most facts I'd forgotten, some I never knew.  I ask him if he's been to the States, he says no.  But it's a lifelong dream and one day he'd like to go to Alaska.  He smiles big and I notice he too is missing three front teeth.  All in a row, just like me.  Except I have dentures, so no one knows. 


I've been living with dentures now for over a year.  In lieu of being able to afford dental implants, I got a nice set of fake front teeth that everyone says look very nice.  The nice dentist in Ann Arbor said mine were the second brightest shade of white he'd ever fitted to match someone's teeth.  It was nice of him to say.

John knows everything about everything and still has a sense of humor.  We laugh about differences between the Irish and Americans and I hardly notice when my dentures start to slip a little for laughing a little bit too hard.  I know John doesn't notice. 

It's the end of the evening and we're made to say goodbye.  I let him know I'll be back next week and that it was so very nice to meet him.  He lets me know there isn't another social club til after the holidays, so be sure to mark it in my calendar. 

Someone helps him up and leads him outside.  I wonder how his holidays will be. 

I am grateful for my dentures and for my warm apartment.  And that I can come back and talk to John again.  After the holidays, of course. 

Merry Christmas everyone!  

More American comments on living in Ireland

There is always a cup of tea in the near distance.  So too is a raincloud.  Such is Ireland.

The rain.  The tireless, mailman-like presence of THE RAIN IN IRELAND.  In all weather sunny, windy, but mostly grey, the rain comes.  I've seen more rainbows in the last 4 months than ever before.  Is it sunny out?  Better take an umbrella.

Oddly enough, the only time I've witnessed the presence of lightning in Ireland was about a month ago.  My first in-Europe flight: Dublin to Manchester.  On take-off, I was giddy at the thought of visiting Korea friends in England.  A couple minutes later, I laughed at the realization that it would take longer to get from Chicago to Indianapolis and here I was, about to cross a sea to touch down in another country.  A few minutes more, about 10 minutes into the flight, 30,000 feet up...

The engines turned off.

There's always that moment in flight when it feels as though the engines have stopped- but I remind myself that it's only because the plane has reached altitude and the engines simply aren't working as hard.  But, not this time.This time, they really did turn off.

I stopped breathing.  Everything was quiet. Nothing moved.  I'm fairly sure my heart stopped.  Then I saw a flight attendant race down the aisle toward the cockpit.  The pilot came on, in a tone more suggestive of 'it's time for tea!', letting us know that the plane had been struck by lightning and that, gosh darn, we needed to make a tiny little emergency landing back at Dublin. 

I'm not going to go into the few minutes after the pilot's announcement.   Let's just say that I'm pretty sure I saw my life's version of 'roll credits' trickling down the window I looked out on upon descent.  (the engines eventually came back on)

It was raining back in Dublin.

I remember the rain montage in Forrest Gump: Forrest's trying to explain all the different types of rain in Vietnam. Picture that and trade Vietnam for Ireland.  Then turn the rain down.  It never really pours here, it's a consistently mild rain.  Just enough to annoy.

But it does keep the place green I suppose.

Here's a view of my backyard!

(no, this is in County Sligo somewhere)

I'm off to put the kettle on for some Barry's tea (to my knowledge, the most popular tea in Ireland)

A Good Place is Hard To Find

I live in Dublin, Ireland, where in my apartment I listen to Neko Case and Madlib and scan the walls and ceilings for large, forever dangling spiders and listen to churchbells hourly, seagulls more often, sirens nightly.  I walk a few blocks and buy my citrus on Moore Street with the other non-Irish.  Down the street you can order from the Eurosaver menu in McDonald's where everything is priced at €2 ($3) or head across the street to Tesco's for a bounty of quality, cheap tea.  We have a loft bedroom, a dirty skylight and a bathroom that reads 'Enquiries' on the door, perhaps once a part of the estate agents' office in the front of the building.  There is a purple, abandoned Adult Store to our right (south) and a cream-colored Dr. Quirkey's Good Time Emporium to our left (north) that boasts "the most dynamic and exciting slot action in Dublin."  If you point in a southeasterly direction, you might be referring to England.

There is also a back garden, overgrown and wild.  In one corner there is a rope once meant for a clothesline and in the other, a healthy apple tree.  Green apples, hundreds of them.  I have not had the pleasure, but by way of Mr. F, I know that our one neighbor is a single, Middle Eastern man, by way of our shared wall, I know he likes to blare late-night Polish television and by way of our shared trash bins, I know that he is a regular investor in Jack Daniels and Four Star Pizza. 

I am confused and annoyed with the public transit and so walk anywhere I can, unless there is a chance to take the DART, where I can steal Hollywood views of South Dublin from my seat on the train.  The views are of untouched Irish Sea shoreline, mountaintops and sometimes an unfettered view of old Irish ladies reading new novels or old Irish men looking out windows or inspecting their shoes. 

I spend most of the day alone, working out currency or temperature conversions, watching old BBC tv series, trying to remember old stories, old cities and dreaming of future visits with good friends and the soon-to-be Productive Me, the one that goes to School and works part-time and learns more and more important things about the world.  I also dream of one day Doing Something.

Even so, the days pass by peacefully enough and I am the happiest I've been in some time.  Even in my daily walks through grass-is-greener nostalgia, I recognize that I'm in a good place. 

Here is some music.  Me and the spiders have been listening to this all day:

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I bought a heavily worn Penguin paperback the other day at Oxfam because I liked the way it felt. And that it was 50 cents. Turns out it's Jane Austen's Persuasion.  Never subscribed to the whole Austen thing, but I've read a few pages and like her use of commas and run-on sentences.  This could be, perhaps, the beginning of a wonderful affair and fitting, that after all those years of Austen-scoffing, I fall in love with her last-written novel in a country so close to...  I will stop now.  

In other news, we are moved in.

Been a little over a week having A Place of My Own.  Closest to a Place of My Own since the Chicago days - (NYC: had 4 roommates, Suwon, SK: the studio I lived in was sponsored through my school).  Been alternating between shades of giddiness and swaths of empty boredom of the staring-at-walls variety, while I summon the focus to plan out What Happens Next before school starts in a month.  

But on to more pressing issues: I have become depressingly closely acquainted with my new currency: the euro.

To Dublin!

I had intended to write my one year anniversary since my accident post, but I've felt the need to set my sights on the future, which has resulted in finding an apartment in Dublin town this week.  The anniversary post may present itself sometime in the near future, but for now, I'd like to talk about what it's like apartment shopping in Dublin.

Been staying in Shankill this last while (south suburb of Dublin) and while it's been lovely, I am looking forward to city life again.  Have always preferred the north side of cities (Chicago, New York, not Seoul) and Dublin's no exception.  We settled on a neighborhood called 'Phibsborough' and it's right at the northern edge of the city, just before you hit Drumcondra after the canal (the canals' perimeters are what designate Dublin proper).

Before I get all sentimental and depressing, as I do, let me do some rote listing.  How about some of the differences I had to accept in shopping for an apartment in Dublin?

Dead at 27

Amy Winehouse died yesterday.  Found in her London apartment, aged 27.

I am somehow strangely affected by this news.  Perhaps it can be chalked up to the whole she was 27, I'm 27 thing, but still.  I liked her music and can even remember fond evenings listening to Back to Black in my NYC room on my crummy only-plays-NPR (and thank God) boombox (the one right next to my human-sized blue stuffed bear that I won in a carnie game at Coney Island), realizing I was late to the party in discovering her, not wanting to like her as much because everybody liked her and had liked her for awhile already, but still.

I remember reading all those famous people biographies and picking up on that dead-at-27 pattern that the alcoholic/junkie ones always seemed to fall victim to.  I remember thinking, aged 10 or so, that 27 sounded so old, wondering where I might be when I'm that old.  Settled: certainly.  Boring: probably.  Blogging into nothingness and regularly murdering afternoons with directionless internet browsing somewhere in Dublin: no.  Oh yeah, and engaged and missing front teeth and not knowing what happens next: certainly not.

On a Clear Day in Bray

I followed an old man down to the sea the other day. Old man, not as in some crusty oldish guy wearing cargo shorts and an ugly t-shirt, but an old man, as in he wore a cable-knit sweater, corduroy pants and loafers and looked out longingly into the water. And the sea, not as in a big lake or a large river, but the sea, the Irish Sea.

But I wasn’t in Ireland. I was somewhere where blue and yellow overwhelm, not the green and gray that I know Ireland to be.